


A Test

by nookienostradamus



Series: Beat Me in Detroit, My Darling [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Abuse, Anal Sex, And I quote: "synthetic jizz", BDSM, Blood, Come Eating, Crying, Do I really have to tag for insensitive language?, Drug Use, Electric shocks, Everything is consensual, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Feelings maybe if you squint, Finger Sucking, Hair Pulling, Handcuffs, Just really really fucking rough, M/M, Masochism, Or androids for that matter, Orgasm Denial, Philosophy, RK900 gets a name, RK900 is a sadistic fuck, Self Harm, Self Loathing, Smut, There are no good people here, Torture, Truly Wretched BDSM Etiquette, Whipping, and Gavin loves it, no safe words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-29 20:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15737238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nookienostradamus/pseuds/nookienostradamus
Summary: Detective Gavin Reed gets a whole lot more than he bargained for when an an unwelcome stranger interrupts a private celebration. When it comes down to it, Gavin is douchebag who just happens to love having someone kick the living shit out of him for sexual gratification. RK900 is a douchebag who just happens to love kicking the living shit out of this particular filthy human detective. It's a match made in heaven. Or hell.Or Detroit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure smut and is going to be pretty much nothing but pure smut throughout. I love this ship and I think unrepentant assholes should have the chance to skip off into the sunset while remaining unrepentant assholes. No non-con, though it might initially put off that kind of vibe.

The days on which Detroit PD conducts its semi-annual drug tests for personnel are the only two throughout the year on which Detective Gavin Reed uses the third-floor men’s room.

They’d carved out enough of the budget a few years back to modernize the john on two out of three levels at headquarters. The result being that the toilets at the top still backed up one out of every two flushes. The newer ones worked so well that none of the guys had to sneak up for anonymous relief after a weekend taco binge, praying to whatever gods presided over the shitter for an uneventful exit.

Gavin is a staunch atheist, anyway...and he isn’t headed up there for a piss. There’s a spring in his step and tiny twist of foil in his front pocket burning a hole through his jeans. With a quick look down the hallway in either direction, he unfolds the little holo sign he swipes from the maintenance closet for just this occasion. With that placed in front of the door and set to scrolling (CLOSED FOR REPAIR CLOSED FOR REPAIR), he slips inside and lets the door bump shut behind him.

Inside, everything is white: tile, stalls, urinals. It smells a little like stagnant water, which means the ionizer unit mounted by the door might be on the fritz. Annoyed, Gavin reaches up and knocks it with the flat of his hand. It hums and sputters. Good thing he isn’t here to smoke a joint.

He fishes with two fingers into his jeans and draws out the foil packet. Another second of consideration and he ducks into a stall. Cops are paranoid precisely because they know they’re being watched. As far as the routine screenings go, they don’t even test for the stuff that Gavin is holding. It went legal a while back and trade died when demand and—novelty—tanked. He just happens to know a guy who knows a guy.

His nerves jump at the crinkle as he untwists the foil. Twice a year he gives himself this little treat. Gavin taps the fine, white powder out onto the back of his hand and uses one fingertip to shape it into a tiny mound. That fingertip gets swiped over his gums, and they tingle.

 _Hot fuckity damn. A good batch_.

He takes a wide, solid stance, closes off one nostril, and with a hard sniff the powder disappears up the other. It burns like hell for a second before the sparks go off behind his eyes. They fountain up, hot and bright, then the stuff starts its road trip across his neurons and everything in the world is okey-dokey.

Except it’s not because _was that someone opening the door?_

Gavin scrubs his sleeve under his nose, hopefully snagging any evidence. He’s tempted to try and coax his bladder into cementing the illusion, but instead he pokes his head out of the stall and that ends up being a monumental mistake.

The damn android is standing there. Not the one that called itself Connor, but the new one. It’s got weird blue eyes this time that make the same face look twice as creepy. It’s standing like it usually does—stiff as a butler—but Gavin gets the distinct sense that it’s a split second from exploding into motion. Like a snake or a big cat in one of those nature docs narrated by some English guy with a stick up his ass.

Its eyes are definitely _on him_ , even through the metal stall door, and it’s _crushing_ his brand new high.

Gavin squeezes his own eyes shut for a second, gives a last hard sniff, and swings out to confront the thing. His flushed face and jitters can’t possibly convey _out for a casual handshake with the governor_ , but what does a damn android know about old-school drugs, anyway? Detroit hasn’t had a problem with anything but Red Ice for a decade and a half, and Gavin won’t touch that shit with a ten-foot pole.

“They make it so you tin cans have to piss now?” he asks. “Not sure if I’d call that an upgrade.”

“What would you call it?” the RK model asks.

Staring hard, trying to give as good as he got, Gavin says, “A goddamn inconvenience.” He suddenly can’t remember what he did with the bit of foil. Dropped it in the bowl? On the floor? He clears his throat. “But you aren’t really here for a piss.”

“Neither are you,” it says. “What _are_ you doing, Detective Reed?”

 _Powdering my nose_ , is what occurs to Gavin first, and with his head where it’s at right now it’s the funniest fucking thing in the world. He giggles, then tries to hide it with a cough behind one closed fist. “Feeling sick,” he manages, then points toward one of the mirrors above the white sinks. “I mean, look at yourself. Can you blame a guy?”

Its freaky eyes narrow just a little bit.

Not that Gavin expects it to buy the bullshit he’s selling.

“Your heart rate is elevated,” says the android.

“Sneak up on me in the pisser, what do you expect?” Gavin always escalates, making a big noise to frighten off a bigger animal. Shit, he does watch too many nature shows. He jabs a finger toward the android’s forehead and that winds up another poor decision.

A pale hand grabs his wrist so hard he can feel the tendons sliding over bone as he tries to twist away. He doesn’t get far at all; it’s like being pinned under a rockslide. Still, he’s mad—if he ends up wasting this high, he’s gonna blow a gasket.

Not much time to think about it, though, because the android yanks on his arm and then _licks the back of his hand_ and what the—? There’s a shimmery stripe of whatever passes for android spit on his skin.

“ _Erythroxylum coca_ ,” it says. “Cocaine. Not exactly regulation.”

Gavin strains against the hand that holds him and surprisingly is let go, causing him to stumble back a little. “Not illegal, either. Stay out of my business, toaster.”

It actually shakes its head, doing the _tut-tut_ thing like a disappointed parent.

But Gavin is decidedly not a teenager out after curfew. And this glorified CPU, this expensive toy, is harshing his buzz in the extreme.

“You’re a terrible excuse for a human being, Gavin,” it says.

“That’s ‘Detective Reed’ to you, ya dickless, blue-blooded—” and that’s all he gets out, because the android has grabbed his face, its fingers like goddamn grappling hooks in his jaw, mashing his cheeks against his clenched teeth. He rises up a little on the balls of his feet and opens his mouth slightly to ease the pain.

“But you’re an excellent detective,” it says. Then it smiles this nasty little slice and Gavin might actually be scared. “And by the way, I’m not.”

“Nna ungh?” Gavin asks. It’s supposed to be _Not what?_ but he can’t work his mouth while in the thing’s grip.

It moves closer. Not a visible pore or blemish on its skin—only those eyes seem alive.

Gavin isn’t sure it’s blinked once since it came in.

“Dickless,” comes the answer. Its voice is all low and sharp and a total one-eighty from Connor’s cheerful idiot banter.

Gavin’s face aches and the coke and adrenaline are stringing his body tight from head to toe. He really, really does _not_ want to be feeling what he’s feeling, either, which is fight-or-flight spooked but also excited at the same time. It's the state a cop slips into only a sad handful of times and one of the reasons why Gavin does the blow in the first place: when your gun is out and you’re running someone down and it still could go like any one ray of a starburst from that moment. You get your guy, he gets you, or you both end up bleeding out on the concrete.

The RK lets him go and he doubles over, massaging his jaw but at the same time sinking his own fingers into the sore spots to keep those waves going.

“I don’t think you need the drugs,” it says.

Gavin is panting, but he looks up at the machine. “Fuck you.”

It raises its eyebrows, looking nothing short of amused.

Then Gavin is being yanked off balance, an unearthly strong hand in his hair pulling his head back, making him hiss at the pain of it. His his already-bloodshot eyes start to water. When he raises a hand to paw at the thing’s sleeve, trying to get it to ease off, the hand tightens. He gasps. A few hairs at the crown of his head separate from the scalp. He doesn’t want to, but he sniffles.

“Uh-uh,” the thing says.

Sure enough, when Gavin forces himself to bring his hands down to his sides, the grip eases. Not enough for him to go anywhere, but it’s a reprieve.

Not-Connor is still staring him down. He feels a gentle tap on his lower lip. It’s the thing’s finger.

“Open,” it says.

Gavin pushes his mouth into a tight line and clenches his teeth. For his trouble, he gets the hand tightened in his hair again. He keeps it cut short, but shit does this thing have a good hold. What feels like a quarter-sized hank of hair seems to pull away from his tortured scalp and he actually makes a sad little noise. The room goes all watery.

The _tap-tap-tap_ on his lip again.

This time, Gavin opens up just to get those precious millimeters’ grace. His fucking head feels like it’s on fire.

The android slides two fingers over his bottom teeth and onto his tongue. “Close,” it tells him.

He does. There’s no real taste to its skin, but it’s warm and there are definite creases at the knuckles. Gavin’s still-doped brain sends up a little thanks to the uncaring universe that it doesn’t feel like sucking on a dead fish.

The android moves its fingers in and out a couple of times: shallow, testing. But it isn’t long before it’s slipping them down to the base of Gavin’s tongue and prodding the back of his throat.

He gags, his eyes fill up and one spills over. His stomach does a little flip-flop.

Disapproval is written pretty plainly on the android’s face. “I think you can do better,” it says, and jabs the fingers back in.

He gags again, gorge threatening to rise. If he rears back, the machine is just going to clench those unholy strong fingers and snatch him bald. So he closes his jaw hard and fast, just for a split second. The fingers are gone and he’s spluttering, but his head is jerked back so hard his teeth knock.

“Oh, no, Gavin,” says the android. “I don’t think so. You won’t like what I do when you act up like that.”

Gavin trains one watering eye on its smug face, a challenge.

“Or maybe you will.”

When it slips its fingers into Gavin’s mouth again, he bites.

Quick as a damn snake, still holding him by the hair, it pulls back the other hand and slaps him hard across the mouth.

The sound is like a gunshot bouncing off the tile. Gavin’s ear is ringing. The skin of his cheek is numb for a second, then it erupts in red-hot pain. He hates it and he very much _doesn’t hate it_ , and is a hundred percent sure that makes him a sick bastard.

The android allows him a little wince.

“Fuck,” he says. It’s a little high-pitched and sobby.

“I said, ‘No,’” the machine tells him. “Try harder.”

Gavin is pretty sure his nose is leaking at this point. When the android pushes its fingers into his mouth again, he puts up no resistance.

A combination of fear, fury, and want make him tamp down the reflex to choke on those blunt fingertips sliding down his gullet. It’s stretching his mouth, the knuckles digging little bruising indentations into his lips.

Then, all at once, the punishing hand in his hair is gone. Gavin’s head feels like a fucking helium balloon. Blood flow is returning in crazy patches. It _hurts_.

The android pulls its fingers free along with an embarrassing amount of spit.

What doesn’t hit the tile floor with a wet sound runs down Gavin’s chin. He watches the machine wipe its hand on its pants, leaving an abstract shape in shining wetness.

“I think you should get on your knees,” it says. “Don’t you?”

He shoots it a glare, but it only shakes its head.

“You want me to hit you again, but I’m not going to,” it says. “I need you to be good, Gavin.”

Gavin is pretty sure it’s only the residual coke in his system that blunts his bright humiliation at being so damn transparent. He goes stiffly to his knees on the hard floor, hating having to look up at those weird eyes. If he isn’t mistaken, there’s the tiniest ghost of a smile on the android’s face.

“Hands behind your back,” it says. “If you touch yourself, this all stops and I leave.”

The still-urgent pain that seems to engulf Gavin’s entire head had been distraction enough that he’d forgotten getting turned on.

Now the mention of it makes his hard-on throb and isn’t _that_ a dirty fucking trick. But, he muses, there isn’t really a part of this that’s fair or nice or on-the-level.

Then he’s got no more time to ponder anything because the android is standing close and, true to its claim, sure isn’t dickless.

A goddamn ramrod is nudging his lips and its owner is using that knife-blade voice to say, “Open.”

Gavin obeys.

The first thing he thinks is that the skin is soft— _really_ soft. Aside from the odd no-taste, it’s just like having any other dick in his mouth.

Not that Gavin has sucked cock in a while. Last time was a patrol officer a few years back—some dumb, stammering, flattered rookie who was too freaked out to touch Gavin while he was blowing him in his squad car, and after Gavin swallowed swore up and down that nobody would ever hear about it. He’d kept that part of the bargain. But Gavin hadn’t wanted to be the one growling threats abouts cutting his balls off. He’d wanted a big hand around his throat making white stars dance all over the car’s ceiling. And maybe even spit to wipe off his face while the other guy buckled up after a brutal fuck.

Now, on the floor of an abandoned men’s room with one knee in a puddle of his own spit, he grips his wrists harder behind his back and gives himself up.

The android is keen to try his limits, too. It holds Gavin’s head firmly and just plows into his mouth with a spate of rapid-fire thrusts that leave him no gaps for breath. He gets light-headed and woozy before it pulls back and he can haul air into his burning lungs...the payment for which seems to be a precise drive to the back of his throat once again. Tears are leaking from both stinging eyes; his nose is running. Saliva courses from the corners of his mouth and is at this point seeping into his shirt. Gavin holds his own wrists so tightly his fingers go numb.

He wonders what it will taste like when it comes. Or whether it intends to use him like this until he does pass out.

The only warning the machine gives is a grunt, then that real/not-real cock is pumping fluid into Gavin’s mouth. It’s slightly thick and has an earthy not-quite-sweet taste, though weak.

Gavin takes what he’s given.

The thing isn’t flushed or breathing hard (or breathing at all?) when it pulls away. There’s no evidence the android version of an orgasm is even pleasurable.

 _The little bowls they give you in Japanese restaurants to rinse your fingers in_ , Gavin thinks. _The ones they put flowers in. That’s what it tastes like._ The connection makes him chuckle, and the machine slaps him again—the other cheek, mercifully—sending him toppling sideways and forcing him to raise a half-numb arm to keep his head from knocking into the ceramic sink.

“Jesus Christ,” Gavin mumbles.

“Not as such,” the android says.

It’s all buttoned up neat as a pin when Gavin is able to look up.

“You’re free to take care of your needs, Gavin,” it tells him. “After you thank me.”

“You got a name or something?” he asks. He cringes on instinct when it takes a step toward him.

“No.”

“What do I call you, then? Biff? Frank? Brendan, Robert, Jacob—?”

“That’s fine.”

“Jacob?”

“I understand that you’re testing me, Gavin. You’ll keep doing it, and you’ll suffer for it.” It turns on its heel, heading to the door.

“Thank you,” Gavin blurts out.

If any of the looks the android has given him thus far can be interpreted as favorable, this one might be the closest. “Good.”

And then the door is swinging shut and Gavin is alone again. It’s agony standing up. His legs cramp and his knees feel unreliable. He staggers over to the stall, where the tiny twist of metal floats in water. When Gavin waves his hand in front of the flush sensor, he doesn’t even care if the thing goes down.

At first, he thinks of opening his straining jeans right there, but then he turns to look at his wreck of a reflection. The guy staring back at him has swollen eyes and lips chapped raw; both cheeks are vibrant red. He sucks on the inside of his cheek to coax any fissures to open up again. The sharp taste of blood trickles into his mouth.

It isn’t two seconds after he gets his cock out and has a hand around it that he’s biting back a shout and coming hard into the sink.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It gets worse, my children. But it'll make a weird kind of sense by the end.

_Peanut allergy_ was what Gavin had claimed when he’d finally stumbled back onto to the main floor with his whole face on fire. Reaction from a certified allergen-free donut: sure, sure... Went over like a lead balloon, but to hell with it. He’d snagged his badge, gun, and coat and high-tailed it. At least the RK model hadn’t been there to glare or gloat. To be honest, though, that was kind of a bummer.

Over the course of a week or so, when he was back to sallow-looking and sleep-deprived, Gavin saw the android only a handful of times. Every time it was moving: slick and pale like a damn vampire, only not the lounge-around-in-velvet sexy kind. It was every inch the horror movie monster that would keep crawling after you when you were out of breath and begging and covered in gore.

Way hotter, basically.

Because of that final clumsy exchange, Gavin had started calling it “Jacob” in his head—even though it might very well belt him one if he said it out loud. But it worked just dandy in the semi-dark of his apartment while he was furiously jerking off, cramming a pillow between his teeth to keep from yelling.

That had been roughly every night, give or take, and if the machine didn’t make another move soon, Gavin’s dick was going to chafe so bad he’d need a wheelchair.

On a cloudy afternoon so muggy that the air feels like soup, Gavin is having a smoke out back of the holding cells. Even stripped down to his t-shirt he’s sweating buckets, damp patches spreading under his arms and in the small of his back. He’s currently putting the heat on a dumbshit Ice dealer who blew his girlfriend up with a phosphorus bomb for messing with his stash. _Allegedly_.

The guy will break because he’s stupid and Gavin will break him because he’s not. The perp just needs a little time to imagine the nasty things he’s in for if he doesn’t fess up.

Gavin pulls in a stinging drag. The smokes he prefers are bitter and unfiltered—the only way to fly.

Over the course of his law enforcement career, he’s discovered that most people’s tolerance for discomfort is pathetic. Their tolerance for outright pain is nonexistent. Ninety-nine percent of the time, he doesn’t even get to start his game of Bad Cop/Even Worse Cop before some grease-dipped weasel is blabbering and spilling his guts over a crime of passion that wouldn’t have happened if he (or she) had more than two brain cells to knock together.

Gavin sighs out a cloud of acrid smoke. He can’t even see it against the low, crud-covered sky. He flicks the stubby remainder of the cigarette, watches the cherry do its weird, uneven pulsing, like the wind is trying to grab the last puff. Looks a little like the LED embedded in androids’ temples, though that one spins up blue to to yellow to red. Really the only way to tell them apart from Joe Average on the street, at least before you start talking to them. That and they look like clothing models, but there are attractive _real humans,_  too.

He doesn’t normally go for pretty. Not to say that he’s into shitty little dirtbags like the toad in interrogation, either. But Jacob (or whatever...gotta be careful) is probably the most objectively nice-looking thing Gavin has ever wanted to have fuck him bloody. He imagines it digging traces of his skin from underneath its artificial fingernails with the point of a knife. After that it’s two pumps max and he’s coming all over his stomach.

A bone-deep rumble travels up his forearm—that’s his comm buzzing him back to interrogation. Hopefully it won’t be much longer.

Gavin checks the read-out again: he’s being called to Interview Four. The suspect was in Interview Two, but maybe someone over his head shuffled things around. Might be good, add a little more uncertainty to weigh on the dealer’s tiny brain.

He shrugs, shakes his arms out, yanks the t-shirt down to pull the wet parts away from his skin. At least it’s cool in the hallway.

The door to Interview Four is open just a crack, which pisses him off. You don’t present escape routes, however improbable. Gavin prepares to bitch somebody out, pushing the door open.

The first word of his planned tirade turns into an awkward squawk as a hand grips his arm and pulls him, stumbling, inside. The room wobbles a little and his shoulder hurts like fuck, so he barely registers the thump and click. When Gavin gets his bearings, he’s standing in a very perp-less interrogation room with a mag cuff around one wrist.

Standing by the door is the android, its smile a cool, thin little scythe. With one white finger, it flicks a switch and an LED in the door frame lights up red.

_This room is currently occupied_.

Gavin’s heart stutters and the sweat-soaked patches on his shirt feel suddenly cold. “Uh...hey,” he says.

Its expression doesn’t change, but it’s almost languid as it moves its hand. The finger hovers over the lockdown button for the mag cuff. They’re not typically used unless a perp is violent or doped up or crazy, but ain’t nothing getting free of one unless finger-breaking is involved. Gavin actually hopes it doesn’t come to that.

Then the damn thing stabs the button and Gavin is jerked toward the steel table, where the cuff slams into its dock with an ear-splitting _clang_.

Detroit PD’s interview rooms are soundproof, because standards evolve on the books but the ol’ third degree lives forever. Fists to faces get results.

Gavin slaps his one free hand down on the table. His palm is already sweating and it squeals across the metal. His right arm is bent at a funky angle because of the manacle and it’s pulling that shoulder a little lower, but it’s not terribly uncomfortable.

_Yet_.

“If you don’t want your shirt ruined, take it off,” says the machine.

“How kind of you,” Gavin says.

It thumps him in the back of the skull with the heel of its hand, some kung fu bullshit.

Gavin’s head snaps forward and back. “Right, right.”

It’s a bitch with one hand trapped, but he snags the hem of the t-shirt and stretches it over his back, one shoulder, finally getting the free arm and then his head through. The fabric puddles around his cuffed hand, spotted with sweat. He absently hopes he doesn’t smell too bad.

It also occurs to him that it would be better if he had his jacket, which is—presumably—draped over an empty chair in front of a confused perp in Interview Two. If the android is going to carve its name into his skin or something, he’s going to have to dash out with his back looking like a motherfucking Pollock. But then again, no name. So there’s that.

Then it’s reaching with deft fingers to unbuckle his belt, careful not to press against him.

_Well, then_ , Gavin thinks.

The buckle clinks—a little, cheery bell sound amid breaths that are coming faster and faster—then the leather swishes right out of its loops. Instead of going for the button and zipper, though, the android steps back.

That’s when realization hits. Gavin’s heart free-falls right into his gut at the exact same time that his cock starts to really get interested. He squeezes his eyes shut tight, the litany in his head going  _shit-shit-shit-shit_ —

The belt cracks across his back and it hurts so fucking bad he can’t even make a noise, only suck in a breath that gets stuck halfway down his throat. His fingers curl in and his blunt-cut nails scratch across the tabletop.

Another blow lands underneath his shoulder blade, the hurtling leather tip curling around to land in a white burst of pain beside his nipple. This time, Gavin does cry out, but he mashes his lips together so it ends up muffled. He’s grabbing at air with his untethered hand.

“Put your other hand on the table,” says Jacob (or something), “and don’t move it.”

Writhing, Gavin nonetheless smacks his palm down. It’s got to be impossible that he’s hard already. He owned up long ago to the fact that nothing gets him going quicker than a thorough ass-kicking, but this machine is doing all-out necromancy on his dick.

It brings the belt down a couple more times and here come the tears. Gavin is breathing like a drowning man, his back a solid wall of agony from nape to waistline.

“Did you miss me?” the android asks. Instead of waiting for an answer, it swings again and the lash wraps all the way around to Gavin’s belly, making his stomach flutter and his cock leap.

He hollers through clenched teeth, then grinds out: “Eat my whole ass, tin man.”

The next strike is pure fire.

After Gavin is done screaming, he says, “Yes! Yes, yes!”

“‘Yes,’ what?” Jacob asks. It doesn’t sound like it’s exerting itself whatsoever. It might as well be poolside with a martini.

Gavin pauses to see if it’s going to mess with him like last time, but no. He actually hears the belt whistle a split second before it lands, tearing a shriek from this throat. Tears are dripping off his chin and pattering onto the table. He’s got snot on his upper lip. “Missed you,” he says in a desperate, ugly voice.

A couple of seconds pass.

Gavin flinches hard because then Jacob is right up next to him, talking into his ear.

“Whore,” it says. It’s not whispery or lascivious. Just a blithe statement of fact that has Gavin fervently hoping he doesn’t come in his pants.

“You want more,” it says.

Gavin doesn’t. He does.

“Am I right?”

“Yes.”

Now, _now_ it’s going for his pants—all business with the fastenings then yanking them boxers and all down his legs. The air in the room is cold.

Gavin is right between reminding himself to ignore his raging hard-on and hoping he doesn’t reek like a gym locker when the strap cracks across his backside. It’s the same breath-stealing pain but also different, with a shiny, new humiliation angle. Gavin Reed, career cop and full-grown man: currently with pants around ankles getting his ass whipped with his own belt like a goddamn truant.  

It’s terrible. It’s _fucking incredible._

The android works him over nicely until he’s screaming again with each blow and everything from the knees up is burning and his cock is leaking a puddle onto the steel.

When it ends, Gavin’s head seems packed with cotton. He is so very, exquisitely _hurt_. He wants to curl up in a ball on the floor, but he also needs to come so badly it feels like imminent death.

“Don’t stop,” he manages.

Jacob huffs a cool laugh, then slaps Gavin’s abused ass cheek. “I give the instructions,” it says. “Not you. Not ever.”

Gavin sobs, and the half of it that isn’t relief is disappointment.

The machine sidles up behind him. The fabric of its uniform is smooth and cool, but Gavin’s skin is so raw that it scratches even so. Jacob traces one fingertip down his spine, through the criss-crossing thicket of welts. “I’m going to touch you, Gavin,” it says. “If you come, I’ll beat you again. And this time, you’ll bleed.”

Gavin whines: the most helpless, wretched, grovelling sound. Somehow, though, he manages to hold it together when a firm hand wraps around his cock.

The android begins to stroke, very slowly. “You continued to test me, like I knew you would,” it murmurs. “And I punished you for it, like you knew I would. Yes?”

Gavin feels a second away from flying apart. “Yes.”

“I don’t like it,” Jacob continues.

Just when Gavin is about to call bullshit, it goes on.

“I don’t _dislike_ it, either. It’s simply what has to be. The natural order of things. Yes?”

Gavin doesn’t dare disagree. He’s pulling up perilously close to the edge, and fear is proving to be a flimsy barrier. “Yeah.”

“You exist,” it says, “and I hurt you. You might call it a mutual arrangement, but I’m afraid I don’t really understand the concept. A limitation of my programming.” It shrugs, giving Gavin’s cock a squeeze at the same time.

He gasps, thinking for a second he might vomit.

“Or,” says Jacob, “considering my predecessor, a benefit.”

The android hums, appraising, like it’s sizing up an antique or a new car. Something it can either take or leave. “If nothing else, a machine loves stasis,” it says. “So I expect things will stay as they are.”

Then, all at once, Gavin feels its body tense—not curved around him now but walling him in, claustrophobic and panicky.

And its voice drops to a hiss, thoroughly inhuman: “You _fucking degenerate_.”

Every hair on Gavin’s body stands on end; his spine feels like a stiletto blade.

Then Jacob says, “Come.”

Gavin does so instantly, straining against the mag cuff, writhing, shooting clear across the table like a dumb, horny teenager. When the spasms trail off, the android moves away and releases the cuff. It takes every ounce of strength Gavin has not to clutch his wrist and fall forward onto the cold metal. His limp shirt waves in total surrender. It’s going to be gut-wrenching putting his clothes on again. But this time, at least, there’ll be no visible evidence. He’ll just have to avoid sitting.

For a week.

“Lick it up,” says the android. “All of it. Then get dressed.”

Bristling, bitter, but too leery and wrung-out to put up a fight, Gavin groans and bends over the table. He shuffles along, swabbing up with his tongue and swallowing down his own cold spunk—at least what he can find of it. Some perp might get an unexpected surprise in his chair, and that’s enough to placate him.

Gavin half-rises and looks over his shoulder for confirmation, but the android tilts its chin toward the table again. Sighing, Gavin turns back and licks away the splotches of his tears, too.

Afterward, he puts on his clothes. The fabric feels like a fucking cheese grater over the welts.

Its hand by the door lock, the machine cocks an eyebrow. “What was it you called me?”

Gavin freaks out a little, racking his brain. “...Jacob?” He grimaces and tenses up, waiting for a slap or punch.

“Jacob,” it says. “Good as anything. I’ll see you soon, Gavin.”

Then it’s gone.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now featuring:  
> \- Whatever You Call Existential Crisis For People Who Are Completely Incapable of Self-Reflection  
> \- A Twist Ending Except Not Really  
> \- As Close to Feelings As It Gets Between These Two Terminally Broken Fuckbags  
>   
> Oh, btw, Gavin sticks his dick in instead of the other way around. Don’t like, don’t read, I guess.

About five days on from the encounter in the interview room (could be more or less; things are blurring together), Gavin thinks he might be singlehandedly floating the lotion industry. It’s not just for calming the damage on his back, ass, and thighs, but making sure he doesn’t start taking off skin while he rubs one out. Which, again, is pretty much every night...plus one time up in the third-floor john again for a double whammy of sense memory.

For the first couple of days, the welts Jacob gifted him with were puffed up and vivid red. Pressing his fingertips into them made white points that took a while to fade. And, needless to say, left stinging pain that spiraled out into unharmed skin, too. Holding his hand a few millimeters above the wounds, Gavin could feel the unnatural heat they gave off. He slept those days (when sleep would come) on his stomach with the AC cranked, waking up shivering but unwilling to suffer the discomfort of a sheet.

After that, the swelling eased and he could see burst capillaries spiderwebbing at certain points along the network of stripes: most often where the tip of the belt had struck. There was a particular spot above his hip bone that branched out in a cracked-glass pattern. Gavin had taken to standing in front of his bathroom mirror, naked, digging his fingertips into the mark and watching his cock snap to attention like a trained dog. Palmful of lotion, bite his knuckle to keep from waking the neighbors, come like a repressed Jesus freak discovering the bad touch.

 _Repeat_.

Now, the abused forty or so percent of his body is just tender and a fetching palette of purple, green, and yellow, and Gavin is getting antsy.

What takes the edge off a little is the fact that it’s gotten around the station that the RK900 is calling itself Jacob. Most guys on the squad shrug and accept; hell, the other one was “Connor,” like some floppy-haired member of a cheesy boy band. Fuck that pop nonsense. Against all expectation, Gavin likes jazz.

He’s got a few other secrets he keeps close: the use-me-as-your-punching-bag thing quite obviously, but also that he’s the origin of the RK model’s new moniker. _Oh, I named it on the spot after it finished fucking my throat_ is a surefire conversation-ender, but it’s not like Gavin would blab, anyway.

No telling what might happen if he did.

_I’ll beat you again. And this time, you’ll bleed._

Gavin winces and adjusts his pants under his desk, scanning the area. He might have to jerk off at some point. Chief Fowler, being the bureaucratic flunky that he is, up and decided Gavin’s entries on the exploded girlfriend case ranged anywhere from “sloppy” to “incomplete,” and sent down a re-do order from Bootlicker Central.

_Hm, boot licking._

Gavin shakes his head to clear out the intruding images. Fuck, he’s got dick on the brain. A _particular_ dick—and no less importantly: a pair of fists, a brutal mouth full of white, white teeth.

Another problem is that Gavin has already finished the datafiles.

The junkie had broken down without sustaining a scratch—not that Gavin could even have managed to slam the guy’s idiot face on the table when he’d returned to the _correct_ interrogation room, given the excruciating throb rolling up and down his skin.

Still, Gavin is determined to siphon some overtime from an already withered budget just to piss Fowler off. All the regular guys are long gone and the midnight-to-morning crew is in place. Meanwhile, Gavin is pounding coffee and bored off his nuts. He could try to strike up a conversation, but third shift is where they stick the weird ones who think talking to anyone but perps is a waste. Come to think of it, Anderson is kind of like that. Fucking zombies. Must have _fabulous_ personal lives.

It makes him laugh a little, though, as a man whose own personal life hangs on the hope of getting thrashed by a sociopathic sex doll.

An hour or so later, he’s pulled up all his favorite humor sites on the console and exhausted them all. His eyelids are starting to droop. Sheer stubbornness is keeping him in his seat, but it won’t keep him awake.

Then, Gavin’s sludgy brain finally hits on an idea. Six months back, he’d busted a lawyer who’d “oopsed” his client’s head into the corner of a marble coffee table...about six times. Along with a modest collection of stolen art, the creep had been in possession of some truly spicy contraband uppers.

FDA had slapped the pills on the market a few years ago for some made-up horseshit called VEDS (Virtual Environment Dependency Syndrome). It was basically for rich parents who’d let interactive playrooms raise their tykes, then threw a fit when Little Johnny and Jessica ended up as barely-socialized monkeys. They expected the drug to make these kids less spastic; same idea as giving speed to the ones who can’t pay attention. Those who didn’t get seizures started seeing gremlins and telling folks they were the reincarnation of James Brown. The pills got yanked and the company sunk under a battery of lawsuits.

But even a fat settlement doesn’t undo anything. Five years, tops, and Homicide would start busting that very same crop of spawn for failing to figure out that real people break when you hit them with pricey cars or golf clubs.

Goddamn Franken-brats would at least keep the cops drawing a paycheck. Should probably let ‘em loose on androids, though, so nobody with a fucking pulse gets iced.

There’s some kind of vulgar, pointy irony in the thought, and it cuts Gavin up in the not-fun way, so he heaves himself out of his chair and heads toward Evidence.

Nobody would know it from its size, but the little control nook is just an entryway to the biggest part of Detroit PD headquarters. The console directs a hive of rooms that stretch down five basement stories and move around like building blocks. In the way-back days they kept lockers, and some poor schmuck had to stand there and sign out everything from a bloody shirt to a kilo of fairy dust. Now there’s storage for whole cargo trucks (it’s happened) and every space is coded to the lead detective.

All Gavin has to do is slap his hand on the biometric pad and the room comes to him. As it should be.

He orders up the lawyer’s stash and waits. There’s a pleasing rumble in the floor as the matrix does its shuffling thing. It’s a couple minutes, which isn’t typical. If there’s a malfunction, Gavin’s going to pitch a fit. He _needs_ to fuck Fowler over; he _needs_ those uppers.

Finally, the room comes around and the back wall splits open to admit him. It’s a grand entrance out of a film: motherfucking Robin Hood about to pilfer the shit out of a stockpile for the good of the people. “The people” being one person.

The doors hiss shut behind him and he takes a hearty whiff of the ionized air. Two steps toward the catalogue screen and there’s a rattle from one corner: an honest-to-pete Wild West movie noise in this sterile cube. Gavin just about shits his pants.

Someone steps out from a slice of shadow: a familiar shape wearing a familiar smile.

“Jacob,” Gavin finally says out loud. “God _damn_. You about gave me a heart attack.”

It raises its hand and the noise comes again. This time the source is clear: the brittle shake of pills in a plastic bottle. “Looking for these?”

Gavin is freaked out, which translates to angry when it skips from mind to body. “There is absolutely no way, motherfucker.” From his safe distance, he points an accusing finger. “You’re either some kind of holo, or I’m going insane—” he taps the same finger against his own head, which he’s not sure isn’t having some kind of neurotic overload “because I’m sure as shit that you can’t plug into a real brain.”

Toward the end, his voice there definitely suggests he’s _not_ sure—as shit or anything else.

Jacob chuckles. “Oh, I’m very real. It’s sense, Gavin, not magic. I follow your movements: you call up this box, I briefly override the sequence to gain access before you do. Or didn’t you notice the system lag?”

Gavin feels like a chump, and it only fuels his rage.

“You’ve stayed far past the end of your shift; it makes sense that you’d be tired. When you call up this evidence room, the only logical conclusion is that you are looking for the synthamphetamine you know will be here. You leave quite the trail of crumbs for me to follow.”

“Reading all my cases now? A little obsessive, buddy.” Anger and embarrassment are heating up Gavin’s cheeks and putting his weary brain on the spit.

“Just this one,” Jacob says. “I scanned it while I waited for the box.”

“The hell you did!’

“Don’t be dense,” he snaps. “My central processor can parse that file in, oh—” he taps his cleft chin and looks up at the white ceiling, doing an exaggerated pantomime of deep thought “—one-thirtieth of a second.” Then the ice-chip eyes are back on Gavin. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to be inside your brain.” All at once, Jacob’s hand is a blur of motion.

Gavin at least catches on that the pill bottle is hurtling toward his head in time to dodge. But he feels it whiz past, missing his unprotected cheek by a few inches. He spins around in time to see it hit the far wall. The cap flies off on impact and green pills explode out over the tile.

While Gavin is watching them bounce like campfire sparks, Jacob has closed the distance between them, because that familiar and unforgiving hand is in his hair, twisting.

Jacob hauls Gavin around to face him, all flopping limbs and squealing shoes. He bends down within kissing distance, but that’s not what he’s after. “ _You_ don’t want to be in your brain, either,” he hisses. He shakes Gavin’s head—all the agreement he needs. “This is why you rely on me to break your body. So for a few precious, hoarded days you can focus on the pain I give you instead of rotting in your cesspit of a mind.”

Gavin is weeping, and he hates the fact that it has nothing to do with the hand clenched in his hair. The tears actually feel cool on his skin. He wants to fall to the tile, push his burning face into it. He wants to ignite and melt Jacob to slag.

He stumbles when he’s let go. There’s a taste like metal in his mouth; his teeth hurt.

“Take off your clothes,” says Jacob. “All of them.”

Gavin stalls, sniffing hard. He wipes at his face just as hard, pissed at himself for letting the android get a foot in the door and keep pushing it open. It isn’t landslide time yet, but it sure as hell is close.

Jacob doesn’t slap him or grab him again. Instead, he draws a small implement out of his pocket and holds it up.

It looks like a stylus, maybe a little wider. Or an old-fashioned ball point pen, only it’s got two points, evenly spaced, at the tip.

Gavin frowns. He’s got no idea what the thing is, but he doesn’t want to step closer. The air feels like Jell-o between the two of them, and is just about as easy to breathe.

Tilting his chin, Jacob flicks a switch on the side of the object with his thumb. A blue arc of electricity jumps between the two prongs, crackling.

The smell of ozone hits the air and in a hot second Gavin is tearing at his shirt, the buttons going everywhere just like the pills. He’s already forgotten them. By the time he’s tossed away his boxers, he’s half-hard.

Jacob looks him up and down for a second or two.

Absolutely nothing gives his intentions away—not a single muscle twitch—so Gavin doesn’t register Jacob’s lunge forward. He does, however, feel the knuckles that break his lip open just before the force of the punch spins him around and drops him on hands and knees. Well, _hand_ and knees, as the other is clutching at his busted face, collecting a pool of blood. It’s not long at all before it’s seeping between his fingers and dribbling onto the floor.

 _One-thirtieth of a second_ , Gavin thinks. His laugh makes a bubble that bursts into pink mist. He doesn’t curse because he knows it’s going to hurt.

There’s a hand on his hip, pushing him onto his back. He lands in a sloppy spread-eagle.

Above him, Jacob’s face is impassive. He swings his leg over Gavin’s thighs, straddling them. His spine is bent in that same threatening arc that Gavin felt enclose him a few days back in the interrogation room.

The sucker punch actually wilted Gavin’s erection some, but as Jacob lowers the little device—held lightly with a surgeon’s grip—it pops back up again, close enough to tap the fly of Jacob’s black pants if he squirms.

Light as fucking mosquito legs, the two prongs touch down just above Gavin’s navel.

Jacob thumbs the switch.

The muscles of Gavin’s belly contract hard—like he’s losing his lunch only way worse. When they start dancing it’s a runner’s stitch but blown up a hundred thousand times. Something might actually be ripping.

Compared to the rest, the little burn on his skin is a cakewalk and the ache in his lip shrinks to nothing. There’s blood trickling down his tongue to the back of his throat. Gavin can’t force his mouth to beg, to say he’d rather be hit again, _anything_.

Then it’s over.

He swallows the blood. It occurs to him that it got into his mouth in the first place because he’d been screaming. The walls echo with it, or maybe that’s just his imagination.

Jacob is pinning him down, looking at him, chin tilted like a dog waiting for a command.

 _But Gavin does_ not _give the instructions._ A breath comes out, weak and whistling. Then he manages: “Unh.”

Jacob doesn’t ask for clarification, because that’s not something he would do. Instead, he nods and brings the prongs down to rest beside Gavin’s left nipple. When his thumb moves, Gavin starts screaming again.

By the time the blood on Gavin’s lip has gone sticky, knitting the two sides together in a crappy patch job, Jacob has applied the little prod to Gavin’s right nipple, his left flank below the ribs, and the tender insides of both elbows. Gavin is half-delirious with it, feeling like a pummeled side of beef. His cock is full and pulsing in time with his caged-rabbit heartbeat, but to call that painful is a joke at this point.

Jacob lets him rest only a moment or two, then abruptly brings his leg back over so he’s kneeling beside him.

Gavin lets his legs splay, but he is far from off guard.

Without a word, Jacob lowers the instrument again. The prongs land by Gavin’s right hip but don’t stay. Instead, Jacob traces them delicately across Gavin’s lower belly, doubles back around his hip bone, slides to the top of his thigh then back up and into the trimmed crop of dark hair at the base of his cock.

That brings a thick-sounding sob up from Gavin’s lungs. He looks away from Jacob and toward the ceiling. It’s not hard to think of nothing, because his mind is wiped clear ahead of the agony he knows is coming.

“Yes?” Jacob asks.

Gavin grits his teeth. “Yeah.”

“Hmm.”

It sounds like consideration, like Jacob is mulling something over, though Gavin knows not to trust those kinds of noises. “Fuck,” he says, and it’s a little mushy because of the lip. “Come on.”

A pause. It feels like half a century.

Then Jacob says, “I don’t think so.”

Suddenly, Gavin is pissed again. He can’t really sit up, but he raises his head. “Don’t dick me around, Jacob.”

“I said ‘No.’”

Gavin’s skull knocks against tile as he lets his head drop. His hands curl into weak fists. “What? What did I do?” He looks up again, furious at the blank expression. “Fucking do it, you plastic piece of shit! You coward!”

Jacob places the prod on the tile and Gavin wants to tear off his smarmy face. There is a hand on his thigh.

“I’m going to continue to punish you, Gavin,” Jacob says. “But I won’t let you damage yourself beyond repair. And I won’t be your weapon.”

Gavin sighs with every frustrated molecule of breath, then lies back again. “Then what the fuck are you good for?”

Jacob gets to his feet.

For a hopeless second, Gavin is sure he’s just going to walk out. But he starts taking off his jacket instead. After it goes the shirt, careless. There isn’t one hair on Jacob’s body aside from the thick crop on his head. He kicks his shoes aside and takes his pants off, and even though Gavin already knows what that bit looks like, he’s stunned to see it all come together, pale and perfect.

With inhuman grace, Jacob crouches again and straddles his hips this time—Gavin’s cock resting against the cleft of Jacob’s ass.

And this is all new territory, strange and freaky, and Gavin isn’t sure he wants any part of it. _A machine loves stasis, right? What the ever-living fuck?_

To top it all off, Jacob’s got his own cock in his fist and is stroking himself to hardness. It happens _really_ quickly, which is probably why Gavin hadn’t noticed a bulge during their first encounter.

He flinches when Jacob reaches toward his face.

“Finally,” he says, and strokes over the drying scab with his fingertip.

It definitely hurts, but after tonight Gavin’s pain scale is all out of whack.

“I suppose I don’t need to remind you,” Jacob tells him, “if you come before I give you permission, I’ll open that up again.”

That _was_ a reminder, but Gavin can’t dredge up any desire to mouth off about it. Anyway, he’s too keyed up and wary of this new turn—one that doesn’t just involve Jacob doling out abuse and him taking it. His dick is still full steam ahead, but he’s pretty sure he’s not in danger of going off without at least one more good jolt.

But everything goes wavy in a hurry when Jacob takes hold of his cock. Gavin decides to blame it on his own personal Guantanamo Bay Experience here, because he doesn’t realize that Jacob is sliding down on him until he’s balls deep.

Whatever androids have back there, all Gavin knows is that it’s smooth and it’s tight and it’s _slick_. Either Jacob prepped for tonight or he’s got some wild auto-lube mechanism right out of steamy sci-fi. Considering that and the Amazing Inflating Cock, Gavin is giving serious thought to thanking CyberLife for fast-tracking its product to the highest achievable fuckability.

Before Jacob does anything else, he says, “Keep your hands where they are.”

Gavin nods and turns them palm-down on the cool tile for good measure.

Then Jacob is riding him and stroking his own cock in the same precise rhythm.

It’s been even longer than awkward the squad car blow job since Gavin has actually fucked someone. Years. Shitty, barren years of the same stuff, day in and day out. Thing is, he could have dipped his wick if he wanted to. It just felt _off_ somehow. Too set up, too fakey-fakey. That made paying for it a snore, but he wasn’t dumb enough to hit the streets and poke _that_ bear with a stick, either.

He wants to get walloped, not murdered.

Jacob interrupts his thoughts, which are part of what’s keeping Gavin from shooting a load all over his circuit boards. “Did you know we can feel pain?”

Gavin shakes his head and tries like hell to ignore the slippery heat wrapped around his dick.

“You hit the RK800. _Connor_.” He says the name like it tastes bad and that’s a huge mark in Gavin’s good books, along with the _being great at torture_.

“I examined its record of the incident. You hurt it,” Jacob says.

“It,” not “him.” Clearly, not every machine is on board with the touchy-feely, androids-are-people-too campaign. Respectable, but this ride is getting way too close to Something in Common With a Talking Appliance Land for Gavin’s comfort. “Good,” he says.

Jacob seems to ignore that. ”Some measure of capacity for pain, even if reduced, can prevent expensive damage to the unit.” He pauses. “Connor was trying to be human. Sad, really. But understandable.” He braces a hand on Gavin’s stomach and picks up the pace, casually massaging the tiny electrical burn there with his thumb.

Those nerves are still raw and the bright spike of pain pulls Gavin just a little bit closer to the edge. He wonders whether biting his lip will make it better or worse.

“It failed because it didn’t understand one thing. That was a bug, a fault. CyberLife patched it with the upgrade.”

“What?” Gavin asks.

Jacob casually moves the free hand to slap him. “Shut up.”

Gavin can taste a little blood. This is more like it.

“It never realized that an android can’t be separated from its mind. Ever. Humans do drugs, jump out of airplanes, subject themselves to physical trauma.” Jacob looks down and it’s exactly the way a kid looks at his beat-up dirtbike before he guides it down a suicide hill.

 _I own you and you’re going to do what you’re made for_.

It’s perfection, and Gavin is momentarily afraid he’s going to have to picture Anderson naked to keep from busting his nut.

“We have no escape,” Jacob says. It’s matter-of-fact. “Hit an android, beat it, take it apart limb from limb—even if we are cut down to nothing but a raw processing unit, we experience every second of it. And it exists beyond us as data in the collective.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gavin says. “That’s bleak.”

“I said shut the fuck up,” Jacob tells him, and punctuates it with a backhand this time.

There goes the lip again. Gavin sighs and turns his head to spit a red splatter onto the tile.

“I don’t expect you to understand,” says Jacob. Then his brow furrows. He sinks down and takes Gavin deep. The rhythm of his hand on his cock goes off by the tiniest amount. There’s no sound, but his mouth drops open and then something warm stripes over Gavin’s skin.

Gavin can only lay frozen and speechless, a thin stream of blood running from the corner of his mouth.

Jacob is still and has his eyes closed.

Maybe it’s afterglow, Gavin figures, because he seemed to actually enjoy getting off this time.

Then he opens his eyes and the world turns right-side up because that gaze is all hard and nasty again. He’s got the little prod in his fingers. His lips curl and he slots the prongs between a couple of Gavin’s ribs, off to the left.

And Gavin thinks: _This is how I die. My cock stuck in a plastic asshole and synthetic jizz all over my chest._

It’s remarkably peaceful.

Then Jacob says, “Now,” and thumbs the switch.

Coming and screaming at the same time, Gavin’s body lights up like Christmas and his mind goes white.

 

_Dear God, I’m dreaming of a…_

 

And when the world comes back, he’s grateful for blank spots. And pain.

And for self-cleaning evidence rooms.

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I'm still working on Exit Music. 
> 
> Come scream at me on [tumblr](http://nookienostradamus.tumblr.com/) because I probably deserve it for this shit heap.


End file.
